


Charon

by Zeryx



Series: Pluto-Charon System [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: All of Dean's self-loathing, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Angst and Porn, Heavy Angst, Incest, M/M, Psychological Torture, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeryx/pseuds/Zeryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows something is wrong with Sam. Just how wrong he couldn't begin to guess. </p><p>
  <i>Part of Dean registers that Sam isn't eating, is staring at his lips around the big straw as he sucks, and at the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows his shake. Probably just wishes he'd gotten his own.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charon

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta-readers, [ hit_the_books](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books) and She Stole My Chickens!  
> This part takes place shortly before and sometime after Season six, episode five.

  It starts with Sam ignoring the sacred rules of shower-time.  
  Rules they have carefully built and maintained, since mentally scarring fumbles in adolescence.

  "Dude! Busy here! Out!" Dean yells, with eyes full of shampoo. He hears the curtain rustle again, but when he rinses the water out of his eyes, Sam is _closer_ than before.

  "Sam, what the hell?" Sam **smirks** at Dean, running his eyes up and down his brother's body as rivulets of shower spray stream off every inch and plane of well-defined, hard-won muscle.

  "SAM..." Dean growls, refusing to cover his junk and cower, glaring at his brother the best he can.

  "Just wanted to be sure you didn't need patching up." Sam's smile turns more innocent.

 "Yeah, well..." Dean grumbles. "I'm **_fine_**. Obviously."  
He gestures with a bar of soap in one hand, waving up and down his grevious wound free body. The hairs on the back of his neck try to prickle, try to stand up under the ....leering his brother does at the gesture. No, that can't be right, he thinks. I'm just on edge from the last hunt. It was a close call. Of course Sam's all weird and clingy. Except... that isn't really Sam anymore. Moodily, he lathers up, forgetting the object of his thoughts is still there. He's not sure when Sam leaves, but his shoulders relax with the click of the door.

 

***

 

  The next time, Sam's stealing his milkshake.  
  "Dude! Get your own!" Dean tries to snatch it back, but Sam evades him, and his hand ends up on Dean's wrist. He looks Dean in the eye while slowly, deliberately, licking a swath of vanilla froth from off his lips.

  "You made me spill it, Dean. It almost went all over my lap. Then what would you do?"  
There's a slow slide of his tongue as it dips down into the tall fountain glass again, and it's obscene. What is this, Sam is _flirting_ with him? No, of course not, he's just being obnoxious. "You'd just be left with spilled milkshake to lick off my lap."

  "Like hell! Also dude, gross, you just contaminated my whole damn shake!" Dean tilts his head, nodding at where Sam is still holding his wrist, glares between it and Sam.

  Sam lets go and rolls his eyes, "I really don't care about your cooties, Dean."

  "Whatever." Dean frowns as more of Sam's icy fingers come into contact with his than they're strictly supposed to as his shake is _finally_ handed back.

  "Jerk."

  "Bitch." Dean rolls his eyes, sighs mentally in relief. Things are normal. Sam's been off lately, he's just... he's trying. So what if he seems gayer than usual. At least it's not that weird coldness, right? Part of Dean registers that Sam isn't eating, is staring at his lips around the big straw as he sucks, and at the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows his shake. Probably just wishes he'd gotten his own.

 

***

 

   They're in another diner, in another no-name one-horse town, but it's got this going for it: damn good hot apple pie.  "Mmmm. Mmm. Oh yeah. Oh baby, been too long. Been way too damn long." Dean moans in pleasure around his mouthful of cinnamon-swirled buttery tart goodness, eyelashes fluttering.

  Sam barks a laugh. "Christ Dean, you're making me wonder. Did you get ideas from that American Pie movie at some point?"

  Dean swallows, shoves another forkful into his mouth. Chewing a couple of times, he lets hot air escape as the pie is too warm and nearly burning his tongue. Open-mouthed, he asks "What? About banging hot foreign exchange students?"

  Sam rolls his eyes. Dean chews a couple more times, moans, eyes sliding shut as he swallows. "Ahhh yeah...damn.... No, Sammy, the only thing I ever tutoured chicks on was sucking dick and making out." Dean flashes a grin at Sam, cinnamon, pie goo, and flakes of pastry flecking his lips.

  "I meant about putting your dick in a pie, Dean. You're making porno sounds over there...." Sam's grin turns sly, "also, for the record? That makes it sound like you gave chicks lessons on how to suck dick."

  "Well, not to flatter myself Sammy," Dean says, shit eating grin firmly in place as he shoves another heaping forkful of pie into his mouth, "But they learned from the best."

  Water dribbles out of Sam's nose as he chokes on a laugh "Dean....dude. Dude, just think about that. Think about. _Exactly_ what that sounds like." With a raised eyebrow and widened eyes, Sam tries to get the message across to his brother while he dabs at the mess he just made of himself with a napkin.

  Dean narrows his eyes and chews thoughtfully, pleasure temporarily muted. When he gets it, the tips of his ears burn and a tinge of red highlights the freckles smattered across the bridge of his nose. "Shaddap, Sammy. Can't a man enjoy his pie in peace anymore? Christ."

  Sam's staring at him again, and Dean tries to pretend this hasn't turned into a regular occurrence.

 

***

 

  Dean only needs four hours a night, but just as hour three would be coming up, he wakes to Sam standing over him in the inky pre-dawn darkness. "Sammy?" he mumbles sleepily. He's too tired to rub the sand out of his eyes, but one knuckle is curling up and coming near to his cheek anyhow.

  "Dean...." Something in his tone makes Dean bolt upright, wide-awake. "What's wrong, Sam? Talk to me."

  "I... I can't." Sam's knees hit the edge of Dean's bed. Dean's brought back to Sam at nine years old, terrified and with a gun in his hands. He hadn't been sure then that his big brother would protect him from anything. **Could** protect him from anything. Dean had tried his hardest to be there and prove that, so Sam could focus on school and kid stuff. Did his best to shelter him so his kid brother wouldn't end up curled into a ball or a gibbering wreck over all the things that they hunted, the times Dad had to leave them alone. Eventually, Sam had run off, pushed them away. Maybe he thought he hadn't needed Dean for awhile. Maybe even Dean had been convinced for a time. But he could do this. He'd be there for Sam now, no matter what.

  "C'mere li'l bro." Dean's not usually the touchy-feely type, but he grabs Sam's hands and tugs down, ignoring how ridiculous he feels over the lump in his throat. Silently, Sam follows his lead. He sits on the bed, one leg at an angle, the other bent over, touching the floor. Dean scooches all the way over, on his side with his cheek resting on the far edge of the bed. His voice is gruff with sleep and other things. "Get in. I'll be right here. Go back to sleep." Sam settles in beside him, his tall frame meaning he has to take up most of the bed to get all his limbs to fit. His breath is puffs of hot hair against the exposed back of Dean's neck. Dean has no way to know Sam is smirking.

  When Dean wakes up an hour later, Sam's erection is poking into his thigh, and his little brother is grinding into him slowly, clearly unconscious. Sam has made him the freaking **little spoon** , snugged his hips right up into Dean's ass. Cheeks flaming, Dean curses softly under his breath and stays completely still. If Sam woke up and Dean wasn't there, it would undermine the entire point of that chick-flick bullshit earlier. _Please God, let him stop this and wake the fuck up_.

Sam was not unconscious.

 

***

 

   It's after the fucking vampire thing that the whole ugly mess gets dragged screaming into the light. All the Cas to the Nth power staring, all the suggestive remarks, ignoring his personal space, that bullshit teengirl snuggling with the teenboy wet-dream crap, the taking it slowly instead of efficiently when they're changing clothes, leaving the bathroom door open when he showers, everything.

  Sam is ambushing him in the shower. Again. Fucking anti-suicide locks, they mean most bathroom doors can be lock-picked without any skill at all if someone wants to get in. Dean flat-out refuses to feel vulnerable and exposed, naked in the shower with his gigantic brother looming over him again.

  " _ **Sam**_. Seriously, something is fucking **wrong** with you. I'm tired of this shit!"

  "Dean... I just want to make sure you're.... you." Sam's voice is wobbly and even though Dean _knows_ he's being manipulated, it still makes his gut clench to hear his little brother uncertain and hurting, even if it's possibly an act.  
Frustrated, Dean bangs a fist on the shower wall at his side.

"Yeah? How the fuck do you plan to do that, genius? We know the treatment works. I didn't drink any blood while I was under. I'm 100% human, authentic Grade A++ Dean Winchester; get the fuck out of here, get out of my goddamn face!" Dean turns his face out of the spray of the shower to glare at Sam, blinking away stray drops of water as they stream down from his hair. Sam just chews at his lip and looks so hurt, so pathetic. Even though there's a blankness to them now, a flatness, the puppy-dog eyes are still effective. Dean feels a pang. He wants to comfort Sam, he does, but he's getting really tired of these naked conversations. That shit with Lisa and Ben tore him apart and he just does _not_ have the energy for this garbage.

  Sam is taking off his clothes. He is looking straight at Dean and taking off his clothes. His voice is pitched low, rusty.  
"You know how." Dean does a double-take.

  "What? No. **No** Sam, we are **not** having this conversation." He resists the urge to grab the shower curtain and pull it across to cover himself up. He's a grown man, dammit. Not a girl in a slasher flick. This is his little brother, and there's no way Sammy is saying what it sounds like he is saying.

  Sam's almost done stripping down, he's taking off his underwear and jeans, pushing both down his hips at the same time. Adrenaline floods Dean's system, but he's mostly trembling like he's cold, muscles tensing up under the shower spray.  
"What is this Shawshank bullshit, Sam? You're being freaking ridiculous."

  "You don't understand words, Dean. That's not how you work." Sam twitches the curtain aside, steps in beside him. He is way way a million times too fucking close, this dinky motel tub was not made for two grown-ass men, especially not when one of them towers like Gigantor. Dean's frozen in place, he's not sure if turning to look at Sam is worse, or keeping his back turned and refusing to engage is worse, or if trying to get out he'll slip and fall and it'll be a million times fucking worse.

  Sam folds his huge paws over the curves of Dean's hip-bones, and draws his brother's wet body to his dry one. He's cold compared to the warmth of the shower spray, and the room is fogging up around them. Dean has turned into a mannequin, as hollow and empty a doll people who only see the surface take him for. Sam pivots them, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist and getting himself wet, decreasing friction. He warms up, and Dean's front is cold exposed to the air.

  One of Sam's arms reaches out, grabbing the cheap shower gel provided, and he squirts into his palm, elbows keeping Dean in place. He works up a lather and then his huge hands, long fingers are stroking in circles over Dean's shoulders and chest. It's... it's not so bad. It's... it's weird as hell, but it's not so bad. Dean blinks and starts coming back to himself, but then Sam's thumbs have found his nipples, and he's teasing them. Dean shudders all over, and Sam's wide lips are on his neck, biting gently. It's too close to being bitten by that Godforsaken vampire he was only too happy to ice, and he's sweating but it's being washed away by the water shooting past Sam's shoulders and hitting Dean instead. Sam's tongue dips down into the hollow formed by Dean's neck and collarbone, one hand leaving a now perked up nipple to wrap back around his hip.

  Dean can feel little Sam paying attention, his brother's dick pushing along the crack of his ass. Sam continues his pretense of washing Dean, sliding soapy hands all around his hips and ass, and Dean screws his eyes shut.  
It makes him more aware of what Sam's hands are doing, but he'll take the trade-off. He can't face this being reality anymore. He goes limp, Sam's arm keeping him upright, as his little brother literally washes his ass. One soapy finger, than another invades his most private area. Really, nothing was sacred between them. Sam had always been the bleeding heart, but it was Dean who'd always been the open book, his deflections and the things he didn't say making it plainly obvious when he was hiding something or bottling it up.

  He feels pressure at his neck again, the press of teeth and tongue, and Sam is sucking a hickey into his throat. He has the courtesy to give Dean a reach-around, and his traitorous body is responding, as it always has to a hand on his dick. Dean is floating, he doesn't understand what is happening. But he does understand. He is paralyzed, can't say no. Can't find the voice to. Can't push his little brother away. Can't deal. This is all so wrong, barely anything is sinking in.

  His breathing is light and shallow, fine tremors, gooseflesh and his hair trying to stand on end against the spray of water hitting his neck and shoulders. It's slowly streaking down his increasingly cold front as Sam knees his legs apart. Sam hooks his left elbow under Dean's left knee in a move Dean himself has done to women a million times. Right leg straight, left leg making roughly a 45 degree angle. He's been put in position. Exposed. If there is a God, the only thing to prove it is that he doesn't have to see Sam's face or his own for this.

  Sam taps his knee, indicating that Dean's foot should stay on the edge of the tub. Sam opened him up okay, but even though he knows it'll make things hurt worse, Dean can't help clamping down as the end of his brother's dick pushes past the ring of muscle in his ass. Dean's erection wilts.

  "Got you, Dean. Gonna' make it so good for you. Gonna' take care of you, for once." Sam is whispering into his ear, raining kisses on the shell of it, pausing mid-thrust to let Dean adjust. Sam takes Dean's earlobe into his mouth, worrying it with hot, flushed lips as the steam swirls around them. Dean has a single act of rebellion in him, an instinctual spark struck by Sam's backhanded challenging of his big brother cred. He pushes down with his sphincter, like he's trying to take a shit, trying to push Sam out. It backfires. Sam is sliding all the way into Dean, balls-deep, flush, with a groan.

  " _Oooh. Dean..._ " The slide of his long fingers, wet and warm on his dick, make Dean erect again. Sam's fingers have wrinkled in the water, adding more texture. Dean opens his eyes, stares blankly at the tile. He's shivering. The steam is making everything soft, ethereal. He wishes this isn't real. Grapples with the concept. Sam starts moving again, the wet slide of their skin against each-other, making it so easy, and while Dean has always found shower sex awkward, he enjoyed it before. Before whatever this is. He'll move past it, shove it down. He'll find out what's wrong with Sam and **fix** this.

  Sam moves his hips in small circles, angling Dean a little here and there. Dean endures. It's stopped hurting. It still feels.... not exactly pleasant, completely foreign. White sparks in his vision as a jolt of pleasure travels straight from his spine to his dick, making his balls tighten. A groan escapes his lips, shattering the silence Dean has kept.

  "Yeah, you like that, big brother?"

  Dean curses a God he doesn't believe in for creating the prostate. He'd never had cause to care about the damn thing before, and this was the last way he'd wanted to find out where it was. Sam rocks into him slowly, and Dean bites down on his lip, drawing blood, trying to keep silent.

  He gasps, anyway, when Sam picks up the pace. He ruts into Dean furiously, snarling and animalistic, forearm pressed hard into the thin skin over Dean's hip as he jerks him off. "You like that, your little brother pounding your ass? Jacking you off with his big hands?"

  Dean's mouth is full of copper. Sam is wet and gasping in his ear, pistoning like the impala's engine, the inexplicable machinery of fate and biology and damnation coalescing into this moment, into panting, the wet slap of flesh and obscenities. The water, the steam, the confines of Sam's arms, his hands, pain turned to pleasure, Dean might as well be in hell. Maybe he was imagining things and he never left. Maybe Cas was just a figment of his imagination. No one that good, that pure, a fucking angel, would rebel, would save him, would stop the apocalypse. Sam would never invite Lucifer in. That was ridiculous. This couldn't be real. None of this was real. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, wishing the hallucination away. He liked the old one better, the one where an angel of the lord raised him from hell, and he got to have a family. Where his brother had died instead of becoming _this_.

  Sam groans, stilling, and Dean can feel the pulsing as his brother throbs, huge inside him, the faint temperature difference as Sam's seed is injected into him. Dirtying him beyond repair. Like getting off the rack and picking up the knife didn't already do that anyway. He feels a bizarre burst of pride at not orgasming first, at being able to do this for Sam.

  Sam withdraws, and Dean winces. "Bend over." Sam murmurs, and Dean complies, too numb to do anything else. A final humiliation, Sam is licking his own ejaculate out of Dean's stretched, aching asshole. The nerve endings are on fire and the pleasure/pain is too much for Dean. Dean's coming too, jizz hitting the dirty tile as Sam's tongue fucks into his asshole and Sam's hands squeeze his dick extra hard as he spasms.

  He hears the cap on the shower gel flick open again, and Sam works lather into his hands again, working his way over Dean's ass, crotch and thighs as Dean braces against the wall. The tile feels nearly as icy as he does. He has no words. He doesn't know if he'll ever speak again. It's like when mom died all over again, except this time there's no baby Sam to cling to.

  Sam pulls Dean into a hug, then straightens him up and turns him around. He bends down, kisses his brother's face, pecks him chastely on the lips. His smile is wide, eyes flat and empty. A well-hidden hint of a sneer as he asks,  
"That was good, right? I made it good for you?"

Sam has no soul.


End file.
